Erik Adams
It didn’t occur to me until news of his death broke, but I was a Robin Williams character for two consecutive Halloweens in the ’90s. In 1992, I braved all sorts of elementary-school ridicule to pull on green tights and spike up my hair to be Hook’s version of Peter Pan; the following October, I slathered blue makeup all over my face to become what must have been a mildly unsettling version of the Genie from Aladdin. At the time, I wanted nothing more than to be like the Genie: Not “the phenomenal cosmic powers, itty-bitty living space” angle, but the humor, the versatility, the quickness, the warmth. In other words, the parts that were pure Robin Williams. He was the comedic ideal of my youth, which made it all too easy to dismiss some of his shtickier, latter day work—because from a critical perspective, you don’t necessarily have to acknowledge the amount of effort and investment that went into those aspects of his performing persona. And he didn’t have to speak through a big, blue Disney animation to demonstrate that effort, either; as evidenced by one of his many Sesame Street appearances, he could reach the same heights of commitment and inventiveness using little more than a stick. To paraphrase that particular segment, the best thing he could do with that stick was give it to us.
Josh Modell
It’s been interesting to see the reactions to Williams’ death, particularly in our comments. There are two common threads: One is that people didn’t realize how much they really liked his work until they learned of his death, which is a reaction that I shared. It was easy to think about him in terms of Patch Adams or to retroactively dislike Good Will Hunting (for the record, I never stopped loving that movie and his performance), but there really was so much greatness in his career. Hopefully it’ll help us all pause and consider the totality of somebody’s work before dismissing them. The other common thread, both from his fellow celebrities and from fans who had casual interactions with Williams is that he was unceasingly nice, and pleasant, and kind, and generous. I love hearing stories about famous people who are big tippers (he apparently was), or who stop and talk with fans and not treat them like a nuisance. That can’t have been easy for somebody like Williams, who was surely recognized every day of his life. It’s another reason to admire him.
Marah Eakin
The only movie I’ve ever gotten kicked out of was The Birdcage, the 1996 movie where Williams plays a gay club owner. The reasons I got kicked out were stupid—it involved my friend and me trying to “sneak” into the matinee of the R-rated film by buying tickets for two different films, unbeknownst to each other, and then weirdly standing around in the lobby for too long—but to this day, I’m proud that that’s the first R-rated movie I really tried to see in the theater. (Plus, it’s ridiculous that it was rated R, really…) I’ve seen it many times since, and both Williams and Nathan Lane are simultaneously hilarious and touching, and the movie really is a bit before its time, even if its gay characters are a little hammy. After Williams died earlier this week, I was reading Twitter and found out how many other people my age were touched by The Birdcage, especially people like comedian Cameron Esposito, who called the movie “the reason I knew I’d be ok, even if I loved a woman.” That’s some deep shit for a fairly light movie, but it goes to show just how much someone like Williams can affect people every day.
Becca James
My entire life, people have told my dad that he looks like Robin Williams. This isn’t too far fetched, as they have the same tiny, sometimes-blue-sometimes-green eyes accompanied by a noticeable nose and a smile that’s sort of on the small side but genuine all the same. The likeness, or maybe just the repeated comparisons, have at times made it difficult to watch certain Robin Williams’ movies depending on the subject matter—something like World’s Greatest Dad was off-limits to me for quite some time, for fear that I would cry profusely throughout the entire film. In the same vein, Mrs. Doubtfire has always been sort of difficult for me to watch, but in a therapeutic way that others might associate with Good Will Hunting. My parents divorced when I was around 9; although the end of their marriage wasn’t identical to Daniel and Miranda’s, there were enough similarities—my dad was more of the fun-loving, child-at-heart parent than my mom—that made it easy to relate to the three children in that movie. And I think, in some way, I needed that movie in my life, with its happy ending, to introduce me to the hopeful idea that not everyone is meant to stay together, and that’s okay, because it doesn’t mean that there is any absence of love or reason for regret. It simply means it didn’t work out. And as Mrs. Doubtfire put it, wherever there is love, you’ll have a “family in your heart, forever.”
Sonia Saraiya
For whatever reason, there are two things that stick out when I think of Robin Williams: a conversation I had in high school where everyone involved (including myself) was trying very hard to sound cool, and his bit about golf in the only stand-up special I’ve ever seen of his. I was emphatically not cool in high school, and one of my most uncool characteristics was that I played the bagpipes in our school band. So Williams’ Scottish accent in that bit, as a send-up to the whole idea of golf, struck a chord with me, and maybe more so because, like many Floridians, my parents’ house was on a golf course. (It’s such a dumb sport.) I watched Williams’ stand-up because of this conversation, in which one trying-too-hard teen asked, “Who’s the best comedian alive?” Another said without hesitation, “Robin Williams.” My face must have expressed some surprise—like others on this list, I never thought of Williams as anything but an immovable fixture of pop culture at that point—and he reiterated something like: “Jerry Seinfeld is great and all, but Robin Williams is a genius.” The comment made me pay attention when I found that special on TV; hysterically laughing at the golf bit converted me to the cause.
Sean O’Neal
The arguable peak of Robin Williams’ movie career—say, 1987 to 1993—coincided with my adolescence, between the ages of 9 and 15. And so, Robin Williams became one of my many de facto pop culture role models, chiefly as Good Morning Vietnam’s Adrian Cronauer and Dead Poets Society’s John Keating, two characters that had a considerable hand in shaping my yearning to be both smart and a smartass. Though the two have little in common superficially, beyond a shared affinity for John Wayne impressions, Cronauer and Keating are both men stuck in oppressive situations for whom being funny is a form of rebellion. Both seek to inspire those who feel trapped in destinies beyond their control to think for themselves and seize the day—and above all else, to know that we’re stuck here so long as we’re alive, so the best we can do is have some fun with it. And yes, I find it sad that the guy who declared “carpe diem” secretly lived in the quiet desperation John Keating (via Thoreau) warned me about. But it doesn’t negate the fact that Robin Williams made his own life extraordinary, or that he filled it at every turn with the essential joy of fucking around. That’s what will stay with me, until I’m fertilizing daffodils of my own.
